


My blood is singing with your voice (I want to pour it out)

by Vracs



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, eve unleashes her inner paramedic, fluff i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 12:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18756835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vracs/pseuds/Vracs
Summary: Villanelle ends up half-dead on Eve's doorstep.





	My blood is singing with your voice (I want to pour it out)

“Oh my _God_.”

Eve wants to wretch.

Villanelle’s blouse clings to her, a translucent, second skin, rain thick and putrid as it shatters down around her. Bruises line the side of her face not submerged in water. Her left eye sits in its socket like a rotting plum.

It makes Eve’s legs buckle from underneath her. She falls against the concrete of her doorstep, heart hammering wildly in her chest. Her arms flap at her sides. She looks at Villanelle’s disjointed body on her porch, deposited and ghostly, skin pale under Eve’s porch light, shirt seeping through in crimson puddles. Eve scoops hands - now numb and useless from the cold - under Villanelle’s arms. It takes great effort to slog the heavy limpness of her into the safety of her corridor. “Shit. Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Oh fuck - ”

A pained groan. Momentary relief at the sound.

“ _Oksana,_ ” she grapples with Villanelle’s shoulders, hoisting her into a half-sit against her staircase. She pats clumsily the soaked creases of her blouse, desperately searching for the source of injury.  The ridges of Villanelle’s ribs heave in discombobulated patterns, head lolling against her chest as Eve checks her over, fingering the notches of her spine through soaked silk which comes away sticky and matted. Eve gags at the laceration beneath.

Her palms press into it but Villanelle recoils. Her blonde eyelashes flutter, eyes dull and slick with tears, an oily film that Eve swipes with her thumb, cool palm pressed to her swollen jaw.

“What the fuck happened to you?” She uses her entire weight to push into the wound beneath her. Her vision darts down the dim hall. They’re not going to make it to the kitchen. The blood on her hands has started to clot, leaking into her beige runner. It clings to her fingernails in crusty, metallic clumps. 

She must think on her feet. Quickly, she rids herself of her cardigan. The scratchy wool of it coils easily around her fingers and she guides it to the cut, guides Villanelle’s own hands to it so she can buy time.

“Hold. Don’t fucking move. Don’t do anything.”

She steps over Villanelle’s greying body and races to the kitchen. Pulls out vodka, throws a bag of frozen peas on the table and a tea towel over her shoulder as she wrenches a drawer and tips half a dozen co-codamol into her hand. A little overdose won’t hurt.

Seconds later, she’s at Villanelle’s side again, forcing her to drink though most of it spills from the corners of her mouth; rolling her over to pour the rest of it onto her back and then plug the gash with the tea towel. The scream pierces straight through her. Villanelle pants and swears through clenched teeth, tears crawling past her water line as she trembles against the agony of it.

Eve feels guilty. Briefly. “You need an ambulance.”

The wound is swollen, cellulitic. Villanelle’s working her way into a cluster of rigors - Eve can practically hear the back of her head bouncing off her wall. The sweat at her forehead clings to Eve’s hand as she wipes it. She hooks her elbow under Villanelle’s neck to cradle her.

“I’m calling the paramedics.”

Villanelle grunts in protest.

Eve pinches her chin firmly. “Look at me.”

Villanelle does. Her eyes should be hazel – Eve remembers – but they’re black, pupils blown with adrenaline. They roll in their sockets with pain or exasperation, Eve’s not sure, but she has a strong suspicion it’s probably both.

She considers, for a fleeting moment, dropping her right back in the driveway for the foxes or cops to find, whichever comes first. She reminds herself then, that there is an assassin in her home, not for the first time, injured, not for the first time, though this time, not by her hands. She softens.

“You’re septic.”

Villanelle’s breath comes fast and short. They watch each other in silence. Eve is still pushing on the wound, leaning in with her whole strength, even as Villanelle reaches blindly for the vodka, draining the remnants in several greedy swigs. Finished, she lets the bottle roll from her and focuses back on Eve, fights to keep her gaze steady and clear as an amused smile pulls at her bleeding mouth.

“You worry too much. I will be fine.” Her voice is breathless, betraying the pain that she must feel. It makes Eve flood with unwelcome, unsettling worry, burbling in her chest as she lets Villanelle use her to sit herself up, fingers tugging at her shoulders for leverage. The movement jostles the injury and blood gushes over the hem of Villanelle’s trousers and onto the floor.

“Fuck. I am sorry about your carpet. It is a nice carpet.”

Eve’s laugh crawls past her throat and dies on her lips.

Is this what Villanelle had to go through? In Paris? Without her? With no one to help lick her wounds? Nowhere to go?

Regret curdles in Eve’s stomach and chest. It feels like there is a home for it, just beneath Eve’s skin, always clouding her dreams of Villanelle crawling back to her in circumstances much different to these.

She scoots to her knees and wraps an arm around Villanelle’s torso.

“Can you stand?”

The answer is _no_. Villanelle crumples in Eve’s hold, leaning forward heavily to lift herself. They slump against the opposite wall and Eve’s hand darts out to catch the back of Villanelle’s head before it collides with her wallpaper.

Villanelle hums. She looks drunk and pleased. “You are spoiling me.”

“Fuck you,” Eve laughs this time, a real, exhausted laugh as she hauls Villanelle’s arm around her neck and drags them glacially to her open-plan kitchen. Villanelle drips all over her tiles, blood and rain and dirt, swaying as Eve slides a chair over to catch her before she collapses.

It’s the first time Eve’s seen her like this. She’s young. Vulnerable. Lone.

Something in Eve’s lungs clenches, squeezing until she chokes for air. She leaves the room before it fully takes hold.

She gathers supplies – towels and blankets from the linen cupboard; pyjamas – she lingers on those, the thought of Villanelle wearing her clothes filling her with nausea and something nameless but fearfully tender; her first aid kid from the bathroom, out-of-date Amoxicillin and Fucidin on her way back to her kitchen table.

Villanelle waits for her in her half-comatose state, chin tipped forward as she drowses against the counter. The towel has dropped to the floor and she’s leaking again.

“Oksana.”

No response. Eve panics. She shakes Villanelle, saying her name over and over until Villanelle looks up and whines.

“Are you going to be gentle?” She studies the pile of supplies in front of her gingerly, ignoring the worry on Eve’s face, the sheer frustration, the relief. “We do not need all of these things.” She goes for the boxes of medication hazily, settling with trembling hands on the Amoxicillin which she downs with a full glass of water, looking at herself to finally assess the damage.

Her face falls. “ _Oh_.”

Eve steps to her. Crouches in front of her, on her knees for her. “Still don’t want the paramedics?” she tries.

Villanelle grimaces. Her bruised fingers move to the buttons of her blouse, tripping over themselves as she fiddles with her collar uselessly. Eve doesn’t move to help.

“I’ll give you a minute.”

When she turns to stand, Villanelle snags her wrist, raising her eyebrows though her voice shakes with the effort, when she says, “You do not want to watch?”

The fact that she does, eats Eve from the inside out, acid rising from her stomach and pouring through her veins. Eve wants to look at Villanelle unbuttoning herself, see the silk blouse drop off her shoulders, see the scar she gifted her, see the life still bubbling inside of her, breathing within her.

She shakes her head. Her fingers catch in her hair.

“Are you sure?”

Eve can see the self-satisfaction swelling inside Villanelle at her nervous blundering, replaced quickly with a pained hiss as Villanelle moves to undress herself.

“ _Fuck_.”

Eve bolts to catch her from toppling forward, quickly checking on her injury and scooping the tea towel off the floor to press to Villanelle’s side as they tether together.

“No, I am fine,” she licks her dry lips in concentration, “It was a joke.”

 _But it wasn’t, you’re in pain,_ Eve wants to say. She watches Villanelle struggle with her clothing. The towel unravels and her blouse falls open to reveal heaving ribs and dozens of bruises like ink on cloth. Her chest gleams with sweat. The muscles in her stomach tense as she wheezes for breath. Her skin’s taken on a slate hue and Eve reaches for her, resigned, helping pull the top loose from the trousers where the blood holds to it tightest.

She’s careful not to touch any part of Villanelle except for the material of her clothing, leaving the shirt balled up on the floor. Villanelle leans heavily on the edge of Eve’s table as she starts to single-handedly work on the metal buttons of her trousers. It takes long, crawling minutes for her to finish all of them.

Her eyes lift to Eve. They startle her.

There’s an apology there. A tired, searching, hopeful thing that Eve studies, brows pinched together as she analyses the worn lines of Villanelle’s face. Her eye is starting to shut, oedematous and bulging. She nurses a cut to her lip, like cracked glass.

The last time they had sat like this, Eve had watched Villanelle eat, every synapse in her brain working overtime as her mouth moved and then her eyes welled and then her arms had Eve pinned to the fridge like a moth, drawn to Villanelle’s scorching, roaring fire.

Eve steps into her.

“Let me,” she says, more softly than she’d hoped for, brushing Villanelle’s red knuckles aside and easing her trousers over her hips.

They make it past Villanelle’s scraped knees before she kicks them away, eyes firm on Villanelle’s laceration, clinical and focussed as her heart jackhammers in her chest.

“Do you have a sewing kit?”

Eve looks up.

“Are you kidding?”

Villanelle shrugs. “Do I look like I am kidding?”

“No,” Eve says carefully and wonders how many times exactly Villanelle had found herself in a situation where she’d had to suture herself shut. She takes the roll of bandage from its plastic casing and rips a paper packet of gauze, dousing it in Fucidin before laying it gently over Villanelle’s skin.

There’s a low groan, a jolt as Villanelle fights to stay still, obedient whilst Eve works on her like she knows what she’s doing, like she’s clinically trained personnel that won’t pass out at the sight of Villanelle’s wound oozing right through the gauze.

Eve shushes her, coddles her as they work together to get the bandage wrapped around her waist, securing the dressing in place before draping a blanket around Villanelle’s shoulders. Pleased with her efforts, Eve reaches for the peas, hands chafing against the cold as she cradles them to Villanelle’s jaw and temple.

The vodka and codeine must be kicking in. Villanelle’s movements are lazy and less tremulous, dulled by the alcohol in the way she cranes her cheek into Eve’s touch, like a sedated tiger, and Eve fights not to pet her, fights to remember the strength with which Villanelle had cornered her, pounced on her, chased her.

Not like now. Now verges on lovely, aching in the way Villanelle lets herself trust, lets Eve do with her as she pleases, tamed.

“Do you want to lie down?”

Villanelle grunts. “On your IKEA fold-out?” she says with disgust, though her eyes glimmer playfully. Eve ought to smack her.

“Yes. On my perfectly comfortable IKEA couch.”

“Is there another option?”

“You could quit being an asshole?”

“The couch, then,” Villanelle raises her eyebrows innocently. Her legs shake as she stands, buffered by Eve’s body. They shuffle awkwardly across the kitchen and Eve places her in the middle of the sofa, propping a cushion behind her as Villanelle tries to adjust. Her face scrunches uncomfortably. The pillows stab and jut at her from all angles, though Eve does her best to mould them to her, careful to keep the blanket securely around her before placing the pyjamas at Villanelle’s side.

She lets out a heavy sigh. Her bones creak in their joints. She’s knackered.

Villanelle must take pity on her.

“You are right. This is a state-of-the-art sofa,” her tongue curls around the words as she smooths a palm over the seating appraisingly, patting the space beside her. “I really like the second-hand look you are going for,” she motions to the scuffed corner of the arm rest sarcastically.

Eve sucks her teeth over her lips, then rakes fingers through her mess of curls. Her arms settle firmly folded over her chest.

“I need a drink.”

Villanelle’s eyes widen comically, gleaming with joy as she smiles knowingly. “Is this all it takes?”

Eve’s face hardens, then softens again, when Villanelle adds, “For you to have a drink with me?” and her _kiss my ass_ comes out so fondly it catches her off-guard.

“Sure. But the last time I tried - it didn’t end so good for either of us.”

Eve concentrates on boiling the kettle, deliberately ignoring Villanelle’s attempts to flirt with her while she makes tea, and an Irish coffee for herself. She’s downed her drink even before handing Villanelle her own, cautious as she sits down at the far end of the sofa to gather her thoughts.

The streetlight from her bay window falls on Villanelle in wet streaks. It makes her glow. Elongates the bruises on her face, deepening them into sinister shadows. Her swollen knuckles cradle the mug as she blows over the top of it, then flicks her eyes to Eve.

Just like that, the moment is lost, and Eve feels herself tense under Villanelle’s scrutiny, indecision marring her tired gaze.

“If you are worried about Niko - I will not take long. I will get out from your hair.”

Eve nods. Niko left six weeks ago. “Okay.”

“I have to call Konstantin. He will be worried about me.”

There’s something in the way Villanelle purses her mouth, the way the crinkle forms between her brows, the clench of her jaw, that pulls Eve by an invisible string, until she’s scooting and they’re touching – only elbow to elbow, but touching, nonetheless.

Eve lets herself sit there, side by side with a killer. Villanelle is warm against her, the wool of the blanket rough against Eve’s bare arm. If she wanted to, she could lean just a little. Rest her head on Villanelle’s shoulder. Touch the split skin of her knuckles. She keeps her gaze firm on the storm outside and takes a deep, self-loathing breath.

“I think you should stay.”

As soon as they’ve left her, Eve wishes she could reel the words right back behind her teeth, chew them into non-existence. She swallows against the thick, dry fist in her throat. Watches Villanelle’s unmoving reflection in the window. The thought that Villanelle might decline, crawls into her chest and takes hold, rising to sting the backs of her eyes, to clog her sinuses.

She coughs. And after a beat, “We have a spare room.”

Villanelle leans forward to set her mug on the coffee table, shuddering as it agitates her bandages. When she slumps back, she swings her knee into Eve’s to get her attention.

“Why?”

Because, where else will you go? Because, who will look after you? Because, it’s the least I can do after everything? Because, I don’t want you to leave?

Eve wants to say all these things but she doesn’t. Only shakes her head and shrugs, moving off the couch before Villanelle darts for her and drags her back.

“No. Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

She looks focussed. She looks terrifying and petulant and hopeful in the way her chin tilts up, eyes wide, the way her cheeks puff out, the way she cradles her injury, arm wrapped around herself as she holds on to Eve’s hand, dangling at her side.

And even from her hovering position, Eve feels no more powerful, not when Villanelle looks at her like that. Like she holds all the answers. Like Eve’s a refuge, her home a sanctuary, and not only for the night.

“Because it’s raining outside. And it’s late,” she says calmly, watching Villanelle’s lip jut in a pout, dissatisfied. She has doe-eyes, battered and beautiful as much as they are tired.

Villanelle lets the blanket drop and pushes through the agony of standing up to bring herself face-to-face with Eve. Her tremors are coming back.

Softly, Eve feels Villanelle’s warmth move into her. She wants to step back. Her body sways forward.

“Do you really want me here?”

“ _Don’t_.”

“Do you?”

Eve digs her teeth into the tip of her tongue. Villanelle smells like gasoline and metal. Her neck glistens with sweat as she sways, determined to stand her ground as her fever claws at her. Eve wants to wrap arms around her, to steady and warm her.

“Put your clothes on. I’ll help you up the stairs.”

Villanelle’s shoulders drop, as does her face. She barely whispers, “Do you?”

Eve’s stomach lurches when she feels a hand – not her own - sneak beneath her chin, thumb planting under her bottom lip. It suspends her in animation. She closes her eyes.

“Oksana.” Her voice doesn’t sound her own.

“Do you want me? I will leave – if that is what you want. You do not have to take pity on me. I am an adult.”

Eve feels Villanelle’s breath ghost across her face. She should be disgusted. Instead, she vibrates with effervescent energy, like a champagne bottle waiting to pop.

“I want you to quit sass-mouthing me.”

Villanelle grimaces. “What is sass-mouth?” The words come out thick and clumsy. Eve laughs despite herself. The sound of it lights across Villanelle’s face with child-like joy that Eve savours.

“Not doing what’s good for you,” she explains, reaching down for the pyjamas and offering them to Villanelle.

Together, they manage to get Villanelle’s legs into the grey sweats without having her bend at the waist too much. They’re too small on her and hug just above her ankles, and aside from finding it sweet, Eve also finds it alluring that Villanelle is wearing her clothes, letting Eve pull the strings secure at her hips, letting her pull the periodic table t-shirt over her head so it falls loose over her body.

Eve doesn’t linger. Doesn’t let her brain register the colour of Villanelle’s underwear, the texture of her bra.

“Are you telling me we have _chemistry_? Is that it?” Villanelle glances down at her shirt and licks her lips. She’s shaking and pale and her face is a mess, and Eve wants so much to shove her back down onto the couch and leave her there, but also maybe to take her to her own bed and watch over her, at least until sunrise.

Villanelle reads her like an open book, smiles, knowing, challenging her against her own desires and Eve sighs in exhasperation, wrapping the blanket tighter around her.

“I’m taking you to bed –“ she cringes, eyes falling closed so she doesn’t have to bear Villanelle’s shit-eating grin when she interjects with _I thought you would never_ , pivoting on her heel in the hopes Villanelle might stagger after her. “I swear to fucking Christ.”

“A joke, Eve. Do not spoil my fun. I am not well.”

“You seem to be recovering at the speed of light, you fucker,” Eve mumbles, aching with warmth at the foot of the stairs, when she realises Villanelle had, like a puppy, stayed by her side all the way there.

She holds out her hand to steady her as they make their slow ascent to the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for this fandom. Still trying to find their voices so characterisation not quite there yet.


End file.
